


scarlet piñatas and rainbow streamers

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe - psychopaths & sociopaths, Gen, Happy Birthday Red John, Red John also sucks at comforting girls, The Blake Association, There's a pinata here, and a bunch of streamers, crack!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9454322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: O’Laughlin stopped mid-step. “He discovered the piñata in the entryway.” Or Red John's celebrating his birthday and Rebecca just needs to die already, because she won't stop crafting piñatas. (Total Crackfic!)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I think I just REALLY enjoy writing about Red John & co., because the idea of a bunch of psychopaths/sociopaths who would willingly work for an association called "The Blake Association" must have amazing senses of humor//or drugs. *cough*

            Briefly tempted to stab the hell out of his calendar, Red John grimaced and poured himself another glass of brandy before ten AM.

 

            “I doubt you’re supposed to be doing that, sir.” Craig O’Laughlin’s abrupt appearance into his study, nearly forced him to spill his glass of brandy. “Don’t stop on my account, but I’d certainly hide the decanter before Rebecca sidles in.” Red John continued to grimace at his right hand’s reminder that Rebecca _still_ continued to haunt his halls, by just being an absolute terror—especially on his goddamned birthday.

            “Remind me why I haven’t killed her again, Craig?”

            O’Laughlin sighed. “That’s the same question I’ve been asking you for years, sir.” Red John nodded, before he pushed the decanter toward his acolyte.

            “Have some alcohol, Craig.” O’Laughlin eyed the alcohol wearily and Red John couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

            “I think I’ll pass, sir.” Red John shrugged his third drink, before he poured himself a fourth. “While I’m certainly not about to stop you, sir, Rebecca certainly will; _especially_ if she learns you’ve had four glasses in three hours.” His scowl deepened. “She’ll lecture you again about the dangers of becoming an alcoholic serial killer, again.” Red John placed his glass atop his desk, before he stowed the decanter away. “Anyway, I didn’t come in here about Rebecca.”

            “I would certainly hope not.”

            “It’s actually about the piñata, which is currently swinging in the entryway.” Red John said nothing for a moment, tilting his head at the use of the word _piñata_. Why in the _fuck_ did they have a piñata in the entryway? It certainly hadn’t been there four hours ago. “…and you haven’t seen it yet, have you?”

            “Considering I’ve been in my office for the past four hours, attempting to ignore you all, I would say I _haven’t_ noticed the piñata swaying in the entryway.” Red John pushed away from his desk, before he stood. “I know I’m _going_ to regret saying this, but—take me to this damned piñata.”

            O’Laughlin nodded. “Of course, sir.”

 

::::

 

            “For the love of God,” Red John exclaimed, the moment he glanced upwards at the entryway ceiling only to find a crudely constructed Patrick Jane piñata swaying toward him. “Get that goddamned thing down, _now_!” Of course, he hated the CBI (and _especially_ Patrick Jane) as much as the next knife-wielding serial killer, but they had decorum as a secret organization—and decorum was _not_ building piñatas of your bosses’ life-long enemy. “This has Rebecca all over it, Craig. Damn that infernal woman!”

            O’Laughlin stood with the Patrick Jane piñata in his hands, having obtained a ladder to cut the thing down. “I’m slightly amazed she has this much time on her hands, sir.”

            “Do me a favor, Craig,” Red John answered, obviously unamused.

            “Sir?”

            “Find Rebecca. Bring her to my office.”

            “Right away, sir.”

::::

           “What in the _hell_ are you holding, O’Laughlin?” Lorelei Martins questioned as O’Laughlin (holding the Patrick Jane piñata) tried to slip past her in the hallway. “ _Please_ tell me that you aren’t resorting to sex dolls now.”

            O’Laughlin stopped mid-step. “He discovered the piñata in the entryway.”

            “Is that code for something?”

            “Does it _look_ like that would be code for something?” O’Laughlin snapped, which brought Lorelei to glance at the piñata in his grasp, before she suddenly hopped backwards.

            “A Patrick Jane piñata? The _hell_ is wrong with these people?” He couldn’t help but agree with her. “I understand a punching bag with Patrick’s face, printed across it, but _that_ thing?” She took another step backwards. “It’s going to kill us all in our sleep. Forget _Chucky_.” Lorelei grimaced with a shudder. “Goddamn Patrick Jane piñata, my ass.”

            “He asked me to find Rebecca.” O’Laughlin eyed Lorelei’s lips tighten. “Where is she, Lore?”

            “In the dining room,” Lorelei replied. “However, you aren’t going to like what you come across.” O’Laughlin sighed.

            “Why can’t we have _one_ holiday or event within this organization without the fanfare?” Lorelei followed him down the hallway, only to pause slightly behind him before the dining room doors.

            “If he would just kill her already—”

            “Yeah,” O’Laughlin interrupted with a roll of his eyes. “Because _you’ll_ be able to convince him of what myself, Hardy or Carter hasn't been able to yet. Please.” O’Laughlin pushed open the doors to find the _entire_ dining room, bursting with colorful streamers and a crude banner, which read: ‘ _Happy Birthday, Red John!!!!_ ’ in vibrant red ink. Or, at least he thought it to be red ink. The problem in living with a general population of psychopaths (and/or sociopaths) was that the color red tended to be either printer ink _or_ blood from some unsuspecting victim. O’Laughlin had learned never to ask, out of the fear for his own life.

            Gale Bertram stood next to Rebecca, almost looking absolutely bored—but the moment O’Laughlin appeared (Lorelei on his heels), his expression changed to one of interest and O’Laughlin couldn’t help but roll his eyes again.

           

            “Why are you holding a sex doll?” O’Laughlin heard Timothy Carter’s voice, from the far end of the dining hall. O’Laughlin flipped him off, before he shoved the piñata into Rebecca’s hands. “It’s not a communal sex doll, right? I thought He banned orgies after the incident in ’03.” Carter approached Rebecca, only for his eyes to widen. “Holy shit! A _Patrick Jane_ sex doll? This changes my _complete_ view of you, O’Laughlin! I had no idea—”

            “Why _yes_ , Carter,” Lorelei answered for him, her voice dry. “Because _everyone_ wants one of those things around here. You pig-headed idiot.” Carter glanced away shortly, before he glanced toward O’Laughlin again, almost embarrassed.

            “That’s just downright…disturbing?” Carter frowned, before he shook his head. “Sorry for automatically assuming…”

            “Don’t feel too bad, Carter,” Lorelei interrupted. “I said it too.”

            “My sex life aside,” O’Laughlin bluntly replied, irritated, before he glanced toward Rebecca. “He wants to see you in his office, Rebecca.” Rebecca, in a plain red dress, eyed him before she glanced downwards toward the piñata in her grasp.

            “It’s about the piñata, isn’t it?”

            O’Laughlin blinked again. “ _No_ , not at all – because why _wouldn’t_ He find that offensive or tactless?” O’Laughlin crossed his arms against his chest. “Obviously, Rebecca! I know you have more common sense that that.”

            “He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?”

            “Hopefully,” Lorelei answered, her grin sharp.

            Without warning, Rebecca burst into a frenzy of tears and O’Laughlin sighed, before he awkwardly patted the brunet on her shoulder.

            “There, there?” O’Laughlin muttered, glaring at Lorelei. “You’ll be fine.”

            Rebecca sniffed. “You…you think so?”

            Carter snorted, forcing all of them to glance at the redhead. “Of course, Rebecca.” O’Laughlin opened his mouth to thank Carter silently, when Carter continued. “He didn’t kill the originator of the orgy incident until nearly three months afterwards, so you’ll be fine…for at least three months.” Rebecca let out a strangled cry and O’Laughlin wondered if he could petition for Carter’s damned death next.

            He heard Lorelei’s sigh. “Why can’t we do the things we did in the grand old days? When it was actually considered _polite_ to slice your enemy’s throat, before dinner?”

           

            “So _that’s_ why recruiting was such a priority when you first joined,” Bertram replied. “Here, I thought it was because you gave everyone—”

            “Oh, fuck off already,” Lorelei deadpanned. “At least I don’t have my head shoved _so_ far up Red John’s ass.”

O’Laughlin stared at the group of Red John’s acolytes, all of whom seemed to be taking pleasure in the Bertram/Martins exchange, before he rubbed at his temples. “You all are a bunch of goddamned idiots. Come, Rebecca.” Rebecca followed him, but not before sitting the piñata down at the head of the dining room table.

 

            “Twenty bucks, he guts her,” Carter said, the moment O’Laughlin was out of earshot.

            “You’re _so_ on,” Bertram answered, at the same time Lorelei replied, “God, he’s right. You all _are_ a bunch of idiots.”

 

::::

 

            “Happy…Happy Birthday, sir,” Rebecca greeted meekly. “You…you don’t look a day over twenty-one.” Red John eyed her from behind his desk, while O’Laughlin stood behind him. Probably to avoid any possible chance of bloodshed, but Red John wasn’t about to inquire the change in position.

            “Good morning, Rebecca,” Red John ignored her birthday greeting. “I see we’ve been dabbling in arts and crafts again, especially with the abomination that once hung in the entryway of our grand establishment.”

            “It _was_ filled with your favorite candies, sir…”

            “Don’t you think, as members of _The Blake Association_ ,” he paused, for he _thought_ he heard O’Laughlin snort. But of course, _that_ would be ridiculous. Everyone _appreciated_ the name of _The Blake Association_ for being original. “We shouldn’t hang our enemies in plain sight, even metaphorically?” Rebecca said nothing as Red John stood from his desk. “We are _attempting_ an overhaul of the Californian justice system, not the local holiday craft bazar for demons.”

            “I’m…I’m sorry, sir,” Rebecca said, before she burst into a frenzy of tears. Red John eyed her, beyond disturbed at the idea of comforting a sobbing woman. “I…I just wanted…wanted to surprise you and I…I understand if you…you have to kill me. But, _please_ , at the very least, let me…let me say goodbye—”

            During her continued rant (still sobbing), of which included her priceless collection of porcelain frogs and baked goods, Red John turned to eye his subordinate. _“Do something_ ,” he mouthed and O’Laughlin eyed him as if wore three-heads. _“Get her to stop crying, O’Laughlin.”_

            O’Laughlin cleared his throat, drawing Rebecca’s attention. “Rebecca. If you stop crying, He’ll…he’ll attend the birthday party you created in his honor.”

            Rebecca stopped immediately. “Really, sir? Oh god, I don’t even _know_ what to say! This is such an—”

            Glaring, Red John side-eyed his acolyte. “There’s nothing I’d rather do, Rebecca.” Aside from, Red John thought with a grimace; kill Craig O’Laughlin with the sharpest kitchen blade he could find.

            O’Laughlin looked terrified, so at least he had that going for him.

 

::::

 

           Throwing open the doors to the dining hall, Red John wasn’t at all surprised by the lingering presences of Carter, Martins and Bertram, who all seemed to be eyeing the piñata in various stages of horror and disbelief.

           “And _this_ , Craig, is exactly why our movement may never mount to anything more than a dream,” Red John said, viewing the three. “Have you all heard of a thing called, a job?”

           Carter, Martins and Bertram stared at him for a moment, before they went back to eyeing the piñata.

           “I think it’s going to kill me in my sleep,” he heard Martins mutter, while Carter passed over twenty dollars to Bertram at the emergence of Rebecca into the room. Martins glanced at him again, finally. “You alright if we torch this thing?”

          Once Rebecca was distracted and he had a moment to pull Martins aside (with O’Laughlin at his side), Red John nodded.

          “As a precaution though,” Red John added, once Martins’ fingers had wrapped around the piñata. “It would be best if you bury the ashes, _far_ beneath the garden.”

          “I understand, sir,” Martins answered, before she (and the piñata) disappeared through the dining hall doors.


End file.
